


Bad Cravings

by quinoareeves



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Forced Orgasm, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinoareeves/pseuds/quinoareeves
Summary: An unfortunate turn of events turns your life around one night due to your stupid chocolate milk cravings. A family tattoo on your shoulder spotted by John Wick (and eventually named evil people) causes an uproar in the organized crime community. You may not have known the whole truth about your family but now you're forced to come face to face with your bloodline. You just didn't expect to fall for the man who you feared so much.





	1. Bad Choice My Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to your procrastination and chocolate milk cravings you get pulled into the dangerous underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad choice, my boy  
> You know that  
> Bad choice my boy  
> You chose that
> 
>  -Tommy Newport, "Bad Choice My Boy"

_ ‘Chocolate milk.’ _

 

_ ‘Its 10pm Y/n, why are you thinking about chocolate milk’.  _ Your intrusive thoughts confused you. Chocolate milk should have been the least of your worries. Maybe staring at your laptop’s screen for hours on end was messing with your head. You had been trying to finish a draft for the magazine company you worked for and boy oh boy were you failing miserably. Maybe it’s because you weren’t really trying though. Procrastination lead you to this moment. Although, in your defense, Netflix’s “You” was  _ way  _ more intriguing than the editorial you were assigned. It didn’t help that your laptop was such a dangerous distraction. One moment you’re writing your draft and  _ click!  _ Oh no, you’re on YouTube!  _ click! _ Wait no, Tumblr! God forbid you click on….  _ click! _ There you go, you’re watching Netflix now! Good old procrastination fooled you into thinking you’d be able to finish the draft  _ after  _ you watched a couple episodes. Little did you know, you’d still be just as lost as you were hours ago when you first attempted to start writing. In the moment anything else was better than writing that editorial.  _ ‘Procrastination is such a two faced bitch’,  _ you scoff at yourself,  _ ‘Reminds me of highschool’. _

 

It was a dangerous cycle. 

 

But now its 10pm and your draft is due first thing tomorrow morning and all you’re thinking about is goddamn chocolate milk.

 

Your fingers leave your laptop’s keys in order to rub the stinging sensation out of your eyes. A bloom of colors fill your vision as you do so. Inhaling sharply, you let your head roll back into the lush pillows on your bed and you stare at the ceiling, lost in your own thoughts, longing for a break. It seemed like your mind wandered to everything  _ but  _ writing. 

 

Looking to your right, you admired New York’s lights shining through your window. Glowing orbs of red, white, and gold originating from the grid of highrises and cars below capture your attention.  _ ‘This city truly doesn’t sleep’.  _ A smile pulls at the corners of your mouth.  _ ‘Fuck it,’  _ you give into your craving and shove the laptop off of your lap. Bounding over to the door of your apartment, you grab your jacket and double check that you have your phone and keys with you.

 

Luckily, there’s a gas station located near your apartment complex. It didn’t take long for you to make your way over as it was only four blocks away. The only annoyance was the cool air that nipped at your cheeks. Opening the store’s door with a jingle, you smile at the cashier you recognize to be Harry. He’s a short and stout man in his 70s with a silver beard to complete the ensemble. You’re the only customer in at the moment.

 

“Hey, Harry.” You smile, “Working late again?”

 

Harry’s eyes crinkle as he flashes a smile of his own. He was stocking the cigarettes behind the counter. “Keeps me young.” He replies, drawing a small chuckle out of you. “Whatcha lookin’ for?” He questions.

 

“Chocolate milk.”

 

His smile grows wider, “In the back.” You nod in acknowledgment.

 

Navigating the short isles with ease, you find yourself in the back of the store in front of the tall drink coolers. You’ve found what you’re looking for. A smile exposes itself again as you squat to reach into the frosted shelves, grabbing a 12oz bottle from the very bottom. 

 

Without warning, the screeching of tires and the ringing of gunshots from a nearby street fill the previously calm atmosphere. The noises quickly move closer towards your location. Suddenly, a black sedan half crashes into the front window display, knocking over a couple isles like dominos, its wheels spinning out furiously. Gum packages, chip bags, and candy bars litter the cracked tile floor that was now covered in shards of glass. The second car skids to a high pitched stop, rapidly followed by another round of ear splitting gunshots directed at the black sedan. Frozen in your squatting position, you stay hidden between an isle and the drink coolers in shock. You didn’t know what to do and your knuckles were becoming painfully white as you gripped the milk in fear. Your view of the situation at hand was minimal but you could see bits of movement through the slits in the shelving.

 

A string of Russian slurs were coughed out as you could see two men struggle to exit the totaled sedan. Scrambling for their weapons one moment too slow, you see a third man angrily approach through the fresh opening in the store wall. Two shots later, one of the men was killed and the other had a busted knee. Screams of agony filled the air as they instantly dropped to the ground. You prayed Harry was safe as he was at the front of the gas station. 

 

“I’ll ask one more time,” the man says, “Where is it?” His weapon locked on the Russian man’s face, he coldly stared.

 

The Russian man coughs once more and his fit turns into a blood curdling laugh. Out of breath and one hand on his shot knee he replies in English, “We won’t give up that easily.”

 

The man pointing the gun instantly fires another shot in response to his answer, obviously not liking it, this time into his foot. “I won’t ask again.” He states, pushing his greased hair off his face.

 

The Russian man laughs again, causing an uneasy feeling to bubble up in your stomach. ‘ _ How can you play with death like that!’  _ Cold sweat trailed down your back torturously slow and you hadn’t moved a muscle, creating a dull burn in your thighs. 

 

“I’ll show you where, Mr. Wick.” He taunts back, reaching into his suit pocket with his free hand. A strange looking medallion emerges. You can’t make out what’s on the emblem but it seemed to strike a cord of interest in the man you now know to be called Mr. Wick. 

 

As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, your phone buzzed a single time indicating a notification. It wasn’t loud by any means, but the single vibration from your back pocket was enough to cause a panic. Startled, you haphazardly shifted in your squatting position trying to get to your phone as quickly as you could. Your breathing was heavy and a pit of fear opened in your stomach as you realized the careless mistake you just made. The drink cooler’s door made an incriminating thud as it hit its frame, sealing the cool air back inside and closing. It was the only sound that filled the air, giving your hidden position away. You moved your knee that was holding the door open in order to grab your phone.

 

The distraction startled both men, giving the Russian man time to reach for his weapon and fire a few hurried shots at Mr. Wick. The man grunts in frustration as he’s unable to move after him. Mr. Wick nimbly dodges the shots. Kicking the gun out of the man’s hand he ran towards your newly discovered location. His weapon was aimed at your forehead and he took a few careful steps towards you. Your breath hitched in your throat as you were defenseless and unable to fight back, the milk slipping from your grasp. Eyes wide and teary, you pleaded in a whisper, “Please.”.  You wouldn’t be able to win this.

 

Mr. Wick cocked his head to the side and his response wasn’t what you thought it would be. Instead of taking a bullet to the brain he motioned with his gun to the tattoo that was peeking from behind your jacket on your shoulder. “What is that?” He half yelled.

 

You were confused as to why he hadn’t killed you yet. That was usually how these situations went. No witnesses allowed. Fear rendered you powerless to speak, instead leaving your mouth open in shock. Mr. Wick took a few more quick steps towards you, bent down and roughly shoved the jacket off your shoulder to reveal more of your tattoo. His fingers gripped your shoulder harshly and you were positive they would leave marks if you lived long enough to see them. The tattoo was of your family’s crest. You got when you were young for tradition’s sake, not really having a say in it. Everyone directly related to you had one. Until now, you didn’t think it had any meaning to anyone outside of your family.

 

He took in a heavy breath, extremely bothered by your tattoo. His seemingly black eyes flitted around as if he was searching for an answer. “What’s your name.” He demanded.

 

“I, uh..um Y/n!” You stammered, trying to fulfill his request in order to stay alive just a little bit longer.

 

“Last!” He demanded again in a hurry, his eyes piercing yours like daggers.

 

At this point, the tears you were holding started streaming down your face and you were beginning to panic again. “L/n,” you whimper, your breath shaky.

 

The Russian man instantly laughs darkly as if he’s possessed. “L/n.” He repeats. “A L/n!” His laughing continued with a sprinkle of coughs. “What are the odds of  _ that,  _ Mr. Wick?” He says in a confident manner. “You’ve walked into quite the storm.” He finishes out of breath and another cough follows his words.

 

Mr. Wick releases his grip on your shoulder and goes to shoot the man with ease, ending his time on earth, seeming unbothered by his recent statement. He maneuvers around the pools of blood he spilled and pockets the medallion. “Shit!” He exclaims as he notices something else.

 

He picks up a phone dripping with blood and places it to his ear. “This isn’t over.” He grits his teeth, furious he’s slipped up.

 

A sassy female voice emerges from the phone, “Wasn’t expecting us to listen now were you? You truly have walked into a storm, John. A hurricane if that.” She finishes.

 

John throws the phone against the store’s wall, shattering it as a result.

 

“You’re coming with me.” He states, trotting over to grab your arm again.

 

You’re shocked you’re alive but your future is still very much unknown. You don’t move, instead your eyes meet his with a sadness, helpless. 

 

“It’s not a question!” He says firmly, pulling you up. 

 

On your way up your foot catches the 12oz bottle of chocolate milk and it rolls along the tile.  _ ‘Damn milk.’  _ You cursed at yourself.


	2. In Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes you "hostage" in an attempt to gain answers at the Contiental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this scenario doesn't really fit due to the plotline of JW3 buttttt I wanted to have interactions with the hotel and such so lets just pretend some of the things in JW3 didn't happen haha  
> \--
> 
> Where do we go? And all the people, they sure don't want you to know  
> The don't want you to know, oh  
> Livin' in chains, the heart's rearranged  
> You gotta lure it back, all of the time  
> Now tell me I'm right, oh
> 
> And I got a thing I really can't say
> 
>  
> 
> -The Black Keys "In Time"

Six minutes.

 

Six minutes is all it took to completely flip your life around. Instead of listening to music, sipping on chocolate milk, and finishing your editorial in your all too familiar apartment, you were being manhandled and shoved into the backseat of some foreign, beat up car.

 

The fear that coursed through you not moments ago at the gas station morphed into anger. 

  1. You didn’t know this man. 
  2. You were being taken somewhere you didn’t agree to go and
  3. You were starting to get pissed.



 

And on a fourth note: he killed two men. Probably more.

_ ‘Im screwed.’  _ you thought.

 

Whatever fear you had at the gas station was completely gone. Your fight, flight, or freeze switched from freeze to fight almost instantly. Maybe it was the adrenaline or shock. Maybe it was both but you somehow altered your body’s response from helpless to hellbent. The only evidence of fear that remained were the tear streaks on your cheeks.

 

“Where are you taking me?” You boldly interrogate John as he slides into the driver’s seat with ease. He gives you a shrewd glance in the rearview mirror but doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he starts the engine, locks the doors, and speeds off, breaking every traffic rule in the book. His left hand’s fingers are wrapped around a knife that’s situated atop his thigh while his other hand grips the steering wheel. He’s visibly tense.

 

“Hey!” You yell this time, demanding his attention. “What the fuck do you want from me? Money?”

 

He scoffs and gives you another piercing look in the mirror. Instead of satisfying your question his eyes appear to taunt you. 

 

“You’re not going to kill me.” You sass, unsure if you were stating or asking. He didn’t kill you at the gas station and according to the now-dead Russian men and the woman on the phone, your name had some importance at least.

 

John darkly calls your bluff. “Don’t think for one minute I won’t hurt you, girl. You’re needed alive but there’s a lot of grey area there.” He whips around a corner, cars blaring their horns in response to his calculated yet reckless driving. You cross your arms, a small pang of unease in your stomach forms but you’re mainly just annoyed now.

 

Mr. Wick’s eye’s soften slightly but he’s still tense. “However,” he continues through gritted teeth, “my intent isn’t to hurt you. That’s not my job to-” You cut him off before he can finish.

You remembered you had pepper spray on your keys and your keys happened to be around your neck on a lanyard.  _ ‘Nice timing, Y/n. Could’ve used this earlier’ _ At least you were using it now.

 

It probably wasn’t the smartest move to pepper spray someone who was driving but you weren’t really in a collected mindset at the moment and neither was he apparently. If he wasn’t going to hurt you, someone else would. You weren’t going to let him take you somewhere that could happen.

 

Except, you didn’t even get the chance to pepper spray this “John Wick” because the second you lurched forward to get a better aim, he expertly spun the car to a rough stop, the momentum forcing you backwards. His suit-clad forearm pinned you against the leather and his other hand pressed a cool blade against your jawline, creating a thin red line. He was strong.  _ Really fucking strong. _ You let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

 

Strands of greasy jet black hair hung around his marked up face. The corners of his lips pull upward into a small smirk but his voice was heavy. “Don’t cut me off.” His breath was hot against your skin.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeated sharply, his forearm still providing a burdensome force onto your chest. “I’ll explain why you’re here and why you’re important once I get to where we’re going.” He loosens the grip on the knife.

 

Anger immediately sparks inside of you “Or what?” You retort, feeling the sting from where the knife was.

 

“But, if you want to act like a child-” He hardens his grip again and you throw your knee into his exposed stomach in response, earning a low grunt. Your stunt didn’t seem to stir him as much as you thought it would. Your knee probably hurt more than his stomach did.

 

“I don’t want to do this the hard way.” He hisses, pressing the tip of the knife into your vulnerable shoulder just deep enough to not require stitches. You realize your mistake and let out a small groan. Your eyes aren't full of fire anymore; they’re back to fear, emotions turning a 180. “But it seems like I’m going to.” He spits out coldly, slowly pulling the blade out to generate more pain. You felt like prey. His face was dark, barely being illuminated by the passing headlights of other cars.

 

He releases his grip on you a bit too rough for your liking but you got the message. Whatever courage you pulled from the adrenaline was fading and you were realizing your fate quite quickly. While John focused on the road, getting back up to a speed way past the limit, you applied pressure to your shoulder to stop the bleeding. You made it a fact in your mind that if you can't beat this man you would have to outsmart him instead. 

 

After a few more moments he slows to a stop in front of a very expensive looking hotel. 

 

“Get out.” He flatly says and you oblige, fumbling to open the car door. The cool New York air hits your fresh cuts, creating a searing ache. You’re still a little shaky from the drive’s events. 

 

John hands the keys to a staff member, his knife out of sight. He doesn’t pay any attention to you as he walks up the few concrete steps. You assume he wants you to follow him. The nagging voice in the back of your head screams at you to run, that this your chance, but you suppress it with a sigh. You know better than to run.

 

He opens the hotel door for you and politely beckons you inward. Your eyebrows furrow at how easily he can switch his character.

 

The interior of the hotel looks to be worth more than your life savings. Lavish rugs are carefully placed around the grey tile, leather couches and loveseats are situated around a fire encased in black metal, and the walls seem to be made out of white marble.

 

The aristocratic patrons of the hotel lobby appear to recognize Wick. They aren’t startled by his bloodied figure like you are. You, however, are a different story. Their eyes narrow at you while their suspicious smiles gleam with intrigue and you’ve never felt so unsettled. They don’t attempt to make any conversation with you as you follow John to the front desk.

 

“Ah, Mr. Wick. What can I do for you this fine evening?” A tall and expensively dressed, African-American man greets him with beaming eyes. You’re standing behind John when he addresses you too. “And you, young lady?”

 

John turns behind to look at you “She’s with me.” His voice is hoarse as he passes a gold coin to the man. “Is the manager in?”

 

“So I see.” His polite demeanor doesn’t change. “Yes, he’s in the lounge.”

 

“Tell him to meet me in my room.” Adding to his request, he leans across the marbled counter to whisper something. The concierge’s face drops and he immediately dials a number.  “Room 880, sir.”

 

John curtly nods and turns towards the stairwell where the elevators are located, his shoes clicking against the tile. You follow reluctantly due to the fact the concierge gives you a saddened look. Confusion floods your senses.

 

“And as always, it is a pleasure,” he emphasizes ‘pleasure’, “having you with us again, Mr. Wick.” he finishes. John doesn’t look back.

 

“What-,” you start to ask a question but John’s voice replaces yours.

 

“Don’t ask questions yet.” He says, pressing a metal elevator button.

 

You can feel your anger bubbling up inside you again but you swear to yourself to keep it under control. The silence thickens between the two of you during the elevator ride upwards. The only sounds present were the standard elevator music and the traditional dings to announce the arrival to a new floor. John stands tall and unmoving during the ride, staring at the door with no emotion in his face.

 

Eventually the two of you make it to room 880. He aggressively opens the door and strides in as you do the same. The room feels more like a penthouse than it does a hotel. Similar to the lobby, expensive pieces of furniture decorate the space, following the same grey and white monochromatic and marble theme. There was a sitting area, two beds, and a kitchen.  _ ‘Shit this place is expensive.’ _ Mr. Wick gestures you to sit in one of the plush chairs located in the corner by the fire. He sits across from you, elbows on his knees and his hands rubbing his face in a slight despair. He runs his long fingers through his dark locks, stopping halfway to grab a fistful of hair. He’s frustrated.

 

“Are you oka-” you attempt to ask if he’s okay but he stops you.

 

“I said don’t ask questions.” His words are cold and vexed.

 

John turns his attention towards you, his hands creating fists on his lap now. His soft eyelids restrict into a questioning scan. “So you seriously don’t know why you’re here?”

 

Nothing comes to mind at all. “No.” you reply with the same icy tone he gave you moments ago.

 

He lets out a breathy scoff, “Wow.”

 

“Wow?” You mock back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your blood starts to simmer. “I’m here because  _ you  _ forced me to. I’m here because  _ you _ threatened to  _ kill  _ me.”

 

“Ah.” His voice catches in a tsk. “I didn’t threaten to  _ kill _ you, I said I won’t hesitate to  _ hurt  _ you.” Heat rises into your cheeks.

 

“Well you did,” you jeer, motioning towards your shoulder opposite of the tattooed one, “and I’ll probably need stitches.” Your legs cross and your arms fold in defense. As warm as the fire was making the room, you couldn’t have felt colder.

 

“You won’t. I made sure.” He replies casually.

 

“It’s  _ deep. _ ”

 

“Not deep enough.  _ I made sure. _ ”

 

“Right.” You say sarcastically. Your blood was boiling now but your skin still had goosebumps.

 

John continues to stare at you for another minute. The room was as silent as the elevator ride was and the tension seemed to keep building. You’d never seen a man so keen on eyeing you over...and not in a good way. His rough face was emotionless again. It felt like he could figure out your every secret just by looking at you.

 

“What?” You snap at him.

 

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he nimbly gets up and steps towards you, towering over your body. He moves your jacket to get a closer look at the tattoo again.

 

“It’s my family crest.” You justify harshly in response to the unwarranted touch.

 

“I know.”

 

You attempt to twist your shoulder away from his grip but he doesn’t let you. “You know?” 

 

“Yeah. I know.” His face is still blank. John rubs the pad of his thumb over the ink, inspecting every element of your tattoo. He’s gentle though and not as harsh as he was in the gas station and the car. His touch sent chilling shivers down your spine and your anxiety was through the roof at this point. “You’d be surprised at the things I know.” He added.

 

“How?” you ask.

 

Three knocks on the room’s door signaled someone’s arrival. Wick moves to get the door leaving your question unanswered and you pull your jacket back up in defense.

 

“Come in, Winston.” John already knew who it was.

 

An older gentleman with the same style of greased back hair emerged. He was dressed in a more casual suit, but you could tell it was still an expensive item of clothing. “Jonathan,” his voice dripped with British tones, “to what do I owe the pleasure.” he cheers. “Hopefully nothing serious!” He sarcastically laughs damn well knowing something was up. The corners of his eyes crinkle.

 

John lets out a deep breath and points to you. “Do you recognize her?” He carefully asked, eyebrows raised and head tilted.

 

Winston takes a couple more steps into the room in order to examine you, straightening his suit jacket. You feel like you’re under trial.  _ ‘An unjust one’  _ you add to yourself. 

 

“No.” He says casually, placing his hands in his pockets. “What’s your name?” He inquires slowly.

 

Your replies are still cold. “Y/n.” 

 

Winston raises an eyebrow in warning at your tone but he doesn’t comment. He places a hand on his chin in thought. “And...your last name, dear?”

 

Before you could answer, John moves to reveal your tattoo again. The color drains from Winston’s face and he turns to John. “Jonathan.” he warns, “Do you realize what you’re doing?”

 

He gives Winston a small look.

 

Winston speaks again before John can. “Do you  _ truly  _ realize your actions as of right now, Johnathan? Have you thought this through? Thought this through  _ truly _ ? You’ve been involved with some deep roots, boy, but now you’re dealing with forests of them.” He hisses out the metaphor, his unsettled attitude seeming to come out of nowhere. 

 

“She doesn’t know who she is.”

 

Winston is taken aback as if John’s comment changed everything. “What?”

 

“I said she doesn’t know who she is, Winston.” John repeats.

 

Winston chuckles, “John, you know more than anyone that she could be faking. I’m surprised you haven’t strapped her down and tortured her yet!” He laughs. “Of course she knows who she is! Don’t be silly, boy.” He adds nonchalantly.

 

You’re unsettled by his comment and draw your legs up to your chest in an effort to become smaller. 

 

“I’m serious.” John warns deeply.

 

Winston scoffs, “How can you be sure?” 

 

“I just know.”

 

“Oh! Of course.” He mocks, “You  _ just know _ .” Winston pulls a phone out of his suit jacket’s pocket to type something in. “You’re lucky you’re on Continental grounds right now.”

 

“What am I supposed to do?” John seethes.

 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” You speak from the corner. Winston chuckles at your question.

 

“Playing innocent, are we?” His eyes narrow and he takes another step towards you, ignoring his phone now. Looking at John, he begins another speech, “You know the rules. No business is to be conducted on Continental grounds without resulting in heavy penalties.” Winston focuses his attention on you, his stare firing bullets, “And you too, miss Y/n. I assume you already knew these rules. I look forward to seeing you again.” He finishes, turning around as if to leave.

 

“I don’t plan on it.” You bark, standing up in an angry manner. “I don’t have ‘business’ here!” you finger quote, “I need to get home, finish my draft, and forget any of this ever happened. I was in the wrong place and the wrong time.”

 

Winston smiles, obviously intrigued by your bloom of confidence. “What do your parents do for work?” 

 

At that statement John’s face formed a look of confusion. He turned to him, “Parents? She-” He was cut off by Winston’s hand raising up as a halt.

 

His question seemed out of the blue but it struck a chord of sadness within you. The memory of your mother’s loss came to mind and you shivered. “Well, my dad’s an insurance broker.”

 

“An insurance broker.” Winston repeats, trying to convince himself of your statement. “...and your mother?”

 

“She died when I was little in a car crash.” you frown, crossing your arms.

 

“I apologize. Tell me, does your father travel a lot?”

 

Your eyebrows knit together.  _ ‘What is he trying to imply?’  _ “...Yeah?”

 

John cuts in gruffly, “Stop toying with her.”

 

Winston nods to himself and places a firm hand on John’s shoulder as if they’re friends. “Keep an eye on her, Jonathan. I’ve got business to attend to.” Something in Winston changed when you gave him your answers. He gives you one final interrogating glance. “I expect to see you soon.”

 

Almost as quick as he entered the hotel room, Winston was gone, leaving you in your bothered state.

 

John seems frustrated again. “I’m getting a drink.” He declares and makes his way over to the kitchen area. 

 

You’re still shaken up with anxiety and you’re not sure how to approach the situation at hand again. Before you can make a decision, John comes back with two golden drinks along with a small medical kit. He tells you to sit on the edge of one of the beds and you comply. 

 

“Drink.”

 

You shake your head in an attempt to deny it, “Oh, I don’t really drink…” you trail off, lying to him.

 

He holds out one of the glasses. “It will help with the pain.” He attempts to coax your response in a different direction.

 

You’re still hesitant even though you know exactly what’s in the glass. “What is it?”

 

“Whiskey.”

 

“Fine.” You take the cool glass but don’t sip yet.

 

John begins to unbox the medical supplies. “I’m sorry about your shoulder.” He states.

 

“Thanks.” You’re not sure if he’s being truthful. All his words have been blunt and computed until this point, void of all emotion except anger it seemed.

 

John pours alcohol onto a small cloth. “I’m going to clean your shoulder so it doesn’t get infected.”

 

You scoff. “What if I object?” You were getting tired of him making decisions for you.

 

John’s lips curl upwards. “You won’t” He was calling your bluff again. “Drink.” He repeats.

 

Ignoring his order, you question his motives. “You said you’d tell me why I’m important. I have an editorial due in the morning and I really don’t wanna be here right now.” You start to get worked up. “You killed two men like it was nothing and now I’m being held hostage here!”

 

Wick ignores your statements. “You’re not being held hostage.” 

 

“Can I leave then?” you sneer.

 

John moves in front of you and begins to press the alcohol soaked cloth into your raw flesh wound without warning. It hurts like hell and you jerk away from his hand.

 

“No.” He simply replies.

 

“Then I’m being held hostage! Harry knows you took me, he’d have called the cops-”

 

“Was he the cashier?” John pulls you back in and holds you still, pushing the cloth back onto your shoulder.

 

“Yeah.” You grimace at the searing sensation but you know it has to be done.

 

“We took care of him.”

 

You feared you knew what he meant. “What?”

 

“We took care of him.” John repeats.  _ ‘Seems like all you do is repeat everything.’  _ you realize.

 

You’re done talking to him. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere anyways. You let John finish working on your shoulder as if you had a choice. In what seems like no time at all you’re bandaged up and back to normal.

 

He lithely moves back into the kitchen to grab something, clinking the glasses together as he places them in the sink. “I’d give you some pain meds but I doubt you’d take them.” He offers, taking one himself instead.

 

He was right, you wouldn’t take them. It was nearing 11 now and you were starting to get tired. Your body was aching from the unexpected turn of events and you used all your energy being frightened and then fearless and then frightened again. Drawing your jacket closer together, you wonder when you’ll be able to leave.

 

“Did you know my parents?”

 

“Yes…” he trails off, “but it seems like you don’t.”

 

He places the rest of the medical kit on a marbled table just outside the kitchen area. His tall figure moves over to you and reaches a large hand out, gesturing to you. “If you’re not gonna drink that I will.”

 

In defiance you gingerly throw the liquor down the back of your throat. “I know my parents.”

 

“Maybe you did, but not the way I do.”

  
  



	3. Snap Out of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You realize you have to come to terms with what John is going to tell you about your family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: sorry this is such a short blurb of a chapter but I think it’s a necessary preface to chapter 4. Sorry for dragging out the whole ‘your family isn’t who you think’ thing. It’s coming next chapter I promise! Hang in there haha
> 
> —
> 
> What's been happening in your world?  
> What have you been up to?  
> I heard that you fell in love  
> Or near enough  
> I gotta tell you the truth...  
> I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake baby  
> Snap out of it  
> I get the feeling I left it too late, but baby  
> Snap out of it
> 
> The Arctic Monkeys “Snap Out Of It”

You couldn’t sleep that night, spending most of your time tossing and turning. You almost felt bad for the silk sheets you most definitely wrinkled. As the night’s minutes turned to hours, and the sky gradually shifted its hues from dark to light, daytime emerged. By now your editorial was long overdue. _‘At least someone will notice I’m gone if I’m not at work._ ’ you hoped.

Even though you had the freedom to move around the hotel room and had all night to escape, you never felt more trapped. You had a feeling John was an expert at this sort of deal. Whatever this ‘deal’ was. If you had managed to have snuck away last night you were positive you’d have to come face to face with consequences more severe than what happened to your shoulder. You probably lucked out with the whole car scenario. A nagging feeling told you that most people who came into contact with Wick didn’t get to see the next day’s light. Despite your luck, you’d much rather be dead right now. ‘ _Lucky them. At least they’re not being held fucking hostage._ ’

Sunlight flitted through the aged glass windows and spread over the wooden floor: a nice contrast of gold against the white and grey tones of the decor.

You turned over on your side to face towards John, wincing when your weight shifted onto your shoulder. ‘ _Should’ve taken the pain meds’_ you sighed at your regret. His bed was a few feet away from yours. Expecting him to be asleep, you were surprised to notice he was already dressed in another lustrous suit with freshly slicked back hair. He really was stealthy if he had gotten up and changed without you noticing. Maybe you were just oblivious. He was situated on the corner of the bed, feet firmly on the floor.

John ran his thumb over the same medallion you saw at the gas station last night. It had strange engravings around its rim. He peeked up at you, noticing your newfound presence. “You’re awake.” He stated.

“Didn’t really sleep.”

“I noticed.”

Mentally rolling your eyes, ‘ _Then why comment on it?_ ’ you thought. Conversation between you two never seemed to be smooth. It was always short phrases or one word answers. It crushed your spirit.

You knew better than to ask him about the medallion. He’d just shut you down or say he’d tell you later. Instead, you pull the silver sheets back up to your shoulder. It comforts you. ‘ _Monsters can’t get me under the blankets_.’

You take a moment to lazily stare at John. If it wasn’t for his aggressive behavior last night and his dull demeanor you’d say he was decently attractive. His suit covered a majority of his skin but his strength was apparent. You could see the clear outline of his biceps through the material.

John caught you staring and decided to cut the silence. “What?”

Your eyes meet his, “Just trying to remember your face for when I have to give the police details.”

His eyebrows join together. “You weren’t looking at my face.” He said matter of factly, pocketing the medallion.

“I am now.”

He shakes his head to himself. “You’re like your father.”

Your emotions force a deep breath in and out and you bite your lip. “You said you knew him?” You weren’t sure you wanted to know his answer.

“I did.” John’s brown eyes fill with a slight sadness and he disconnects his gaze from yours. He inhales sharply, “Y/n, I really am sorry.”

Opposed to last nights attitude, John seems sincere. His emotions begin to worry you. ‘ _Don’t feel sorry for him. You don’t even know what you’re sorry for._ ’ You stay silent, waiting for him to continue.

“You weren’t supposed to be dragged into this...” he tried to find the right words, “mess.”

“I still don’t know what’s going on. You could just let me go and I won’t say a word, I promise! You won’t ever have to see me.” You words are wholehearted, your expression begging.

He winces, “That’s the problem.”

“Why?” You’re losing hope now.

“It’s not me you should be worried about. There’s...other people involved.”

You stare at the ceiling, tears cresting around the bottom lids of your eyes. “Who?”

John sighs again. His conflicting thoughts are visible through his frustrated actions. “It would be better if I just show you. Do you trust me?”

You laugh at the word ‘trust’. Hell no you didn’t trust him but did you have a choice? No. The answer would always be ‘no’ with Mr. Stupid Fucking John Asshole Wick.

Your voice rings small, “Yeah.”

“There’s no going back.”

There was obviously something seriously wrong if he was so focused on keeping you at this crazy expensive hotel. He made it apparent that his intent wasn’t to hurt you. Whatever he had to say, you would listen. As hard as it may be you wanted to know what was wrong and why you were so important. You didn’t have to trust him, you just had to listen.

“I’m ready.”


End file.
